


i can hear you talk to the mirror, but i guess you don't talk to me

by MissAtomicBomb (mrs_nerimon)



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: M/M, what's a better way to demonstrate your rock solid mental state than a friendly bj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_nerimon/pseuds/MissAtomicBomb
Summary: “There’s no we right now.” Trent grabs for his hand but Chuck doesn’t hold it back,  just lets it hang there like he’s not even registering. “I’m not in there with you, okay?”Post-World Tag League Finals. All is well.





	i can hear you talk to the mirror, but i guess you don't talk to me

**Author's Note:**

> me, sliding into any storyline about someone going off the rails and their friends being wildly concerned: you rang?
> 
> title from "extra free year" by generationals

He’s dead. They’re both gonna be dead soon. Suzuki-gun’s gonna kill Chuck and then beat him to death with Chuck’s dead body. Or vice versa.

Trent’s pretty sure they got some kind of a head start on them, but who the fuck knows. K.E.S could already be in their damn hotel room by now, those sneaky little assholes. Probably waiting in there with chains and chairs and _fuck_ , he’s a dead man.

Chuck doesn’t seem concerned. He’s stopped fighting him now, content to let Trent tug him down the hall by his wrist, like a large child being dragged to bed.

They reach the room and he practically shoves Chuck through the door, flipping on the lights just to make sure there isn’t anyone lurking inside. It looks blissfully empty, with their bags still open and strewn across the floor, same way they left them just a few hours ago, back when he still thought there was half a chance they could have a normal match for once.

Chuck spins on his heel and stares at him. He has those same cloudy eyes, his expression seeming just as far away as it did when he was swinging that chair at everything that moved, shouting he was ready for more, he’d take all four of them, eager to face death in front of a fucking audience.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Chuck tilts his head. “What?”

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s your problem?”

“Calm down, man-“

“No, I’m not doing this anymore!” He almost feels bad for yelling but he doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to handle any of this when Chuck’s giving him less than nothing. “You’re losing it.”

“I told you, we’re gonna-“

“There’s no _we_ right now.” Trent grabs for his hand but Chuck doesn’t hold it back, just lets it hang there like he’s not even registering. “I’m not in there with you, okay?”

Chuck blinks at him, face blank. He glances down at Trent gripping his hand and then back up at him slowly, his eyes narrowing in. There's a different sort of look in his gaze, not the dull, glazed over look he held in the ring, but something more pointed.

For half a second, Trent thinks Chuck’s gonna snap here and now, and Rocky’s gonna come in tomorrow and find him passed out in his own blood in a hotel bed, strangled by sheets or knocked out with the lamp. He hates that there’s even a shred of him that doubts Chuck, but after the show he’s put on this past week, what the hell else is he supposed to think?

They're both so quiet he can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, the breathing between them, the rumblings of people passing by in the hall. Some of them sound familiar, which only makes him more nervous. There's a pretty good chance like 80% of the other teams hate their guts right now, and if Chuck starts taking it to him, it's not like they're gonna stop him.

Chuck moves in an instant. Trent squeezes his eyes shut instinctively, unsure if he should be prepping for a hit, but it never comes.

It takes a few seconds to register that Chuck’s kissing him. His mouth is dry and hot and he's a little more forceful than he could be, but it's decidedly a kiss.

He’s not _too_ shocked; he and Chuck have kissed before. Accidentally, and a couple times on purpose, when a hug didn't seem to get out all the intensity rushing through them. Sometimes even when they were sober.

But those hadn't been like this; hot and heavy handed, rough against his skin. Those weren’t Chuck’s hands on his chest and in his hair, tugging his head back to kiss down his neck, biting at his collarbone like this is- what? High school?

“Slow down,” Trent hears himself say, but Chuck’s got a hand down his pants and his tongue sliding somewhere in the vicinity of his nipple and maybe he doesn’t really want to slow down either. Maybe that’s just what good guys are supposed to say when their tag partner breaks down in the middle of the ring and then suddenly wants to bone them.

He registers he’s panting, probably from wrestling against a literal fucking murder squad and not because Chuck’s stroking him, because it would be pretty embarrassing to be this far gone already. Pretty goddamn pathetic, Beretta.

Chuck slides his head into the crook of his neck and it feels familiar, like falling asleep together and holding hands and all that shit. Like normal, a little. Only maybe not at all, because he’s pretty sure he’s never held Chuck’s hand and hissed _Jesus, fuck_ before.

“You good?” Chuck whispers, like he’s the one who needs the check up.

He nods stiffly, and Chuck has the balls to give him a big toothy smile.

Suddenly he’s dropped down, kneeling against the carpet they accidentally stained with spray tan yesterday, one hand pulling Trent’s tights down and the other freeing his cock.

“Oh,” he mumbles, because he’s still not entirely sure why any of this is happening. The whole thing feels so dreamlike he wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the ring tomorrow morning; maybe he got knocked out with a chair after all.

Chuck’s got one hand on his hip and his mouth centimeters from Trent’s dick. Suzuki probably has a hit out on them. They beat the tag champs the other night. Chuck punched him last week. Chuck’s also currently licking his lips and giving him a terrible attempt at a wink. This is definitely a dream.

Chuck rubs his thumb in tiny circles over his hipbone, which feels weirdly good and distracting at the same time. He starts slow, mouth wildly hot and his tongue soft, gentle. Sweet. He flicks his tongue against the head and Trent reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together. His heart feels kinda hard, but not in a heart attack way. He’s not sure if it’s in a sexy way, either.

He takes more of him in and Trent tries his best to keep still, keep his focus. He squeezes their hands and Chuck squeezes back, which is an impressive level of multitasking because he’s struggling to remember how his legs work right now.

Chuck’s tongue is the nicest part, he thinks. It says a lot of mean shit most of the time, but right now it's really being pretty nice to him.

He squeezes his eyes shut. The light feels like it’s making everything too hot. Too much to see. _Shit_. He didn’t check the bathroom, he thinks suddenly. Fuck, that long haired pervert’s probably in there getting off to this before he comes out and knocks them both out. After years of stupid ass dangerous stunts, this he how he dies; mid-blow job.

Chuck pulls back for a moment, and he’s got spit on his lips and his chin and spit on Trent’s cock and the whole thing is a nice image, really. It’s a good one to think about the next time Chuck goes haywire.

Next time. _Christ_.

He’s vaguely aware that at some point he’s sat down, and Chuck’s squatting between his legs, hands spreading his thighs wider. It should feel exposing, maybe, or embarrassing, especially as he keeps hearing those whining noises that must be coming from him, since Chuck’s mouth is otherwise occupied.

But Chuck looks up at him, eyes wide, mouth full, and Jesus Christ, it’s good. It’s really fucking good. _Chuck’s_ fucking good at this. He wonders, selfishly, jealously, who he’s gotten all his practice on.

He tries to think of shit to make him last longer. Grandma's funeral. Dogs in a shelter. The line of fish heads at the restaurant he and Rock ate at last night. But Chuck hollows his cheeks and makes some obscene slurping sound straight out of a terrible porn flick, and he’s only so strong after all.

Chuck takes it like a champ, giving one last swirl of his tongue before sliding off with a wet pop. He wipes at his mouth roughly, sliding saliva across the side of his cheek. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he only props his head on Trent’s knee and let’s his mouth hang open almost like a dog, panting at his feet.

Trent wishes he knew what to say, but he’s worried if he says anything at all it’ll be too heavy for whatever just happened. So he just pats Chuck’s head halfheartedly, fingers stroking through his sweaty hair.

Chuck leans into his touch. “See?” He whispers, and Trent freezes, hand almost cupping his cheek if he moved it a few centimeters, which he won’t because that right there is the line he won’t cross. _We can blow each other, sure, fair game. Romantic touches? That's too much_.

“I’m fine,” Chuck gives him a wide smile, teeth glowing under the hotel room light. He’s not sure if giving your best friend an aggressive blow job twenty minutes after attacking everyone with chairs screams fine, but it’s not like arguing this with Chuck has gotten them anywhere.

“Okay,” he offers. Chuck's hands are still rubbing at his thighs in a slow pattern, something so soft and gentle it seems miles away from the guy he was in the ring. Trent doesn’t know how to make sense of that, how to put together two pieces that just don’t fit.

If he was brave enough, he’d say something dumb like _I’m worried about you_. Something like _I’m scared, I’m scared for you, Chuckie. I’m scared of you, sometimes_. You get a free pass to say shit like that after you come, right?

Only the words are stuck in his throat, so he just gives Chuck another half-assed pat on the head. _Thanks for that, man. What a friend_.

Chuck nuzzles against the inside of his thigh and he realizes they’re both still wearing their gear, didn’t even take their goddamn boots off. He feels like a stupid teenager, getting off with his tights still on. Letting his dick make the decision when he knows in his head this can't be more than a distraction.

“I love you,” Chuck mumbles into his tights, and they’ve said it a hundred, thousand times before, but only this one seems to count right now.

“I love you,” he echoes in a low voice. There’s a familiar glare starting to come back in Chuck’s eyes, a smile that doesn't feel so unsettled and forced. He pushes himself up to lean over Trent, hands on his knees, face inches away. Trent expects a kiss, half tilts his head up for it, but Chuck only throws his arms around him and lets them both fall back into the bed.

It feels wildly good to lay down, even in a crappy hotel bed. His back hurts, and his eyes hurt, and pretty much everything except his dick hurts right now. They should probably get up and shower, or order dinner, or do something adult-like and responsible. Call a doctor, maybe.

But Chuck's already closed his eyes, wiggling his head to rest on Trent's shoulder. He lets out a long sigh, his breath warm and still somehow comforting. Trent wants to be better for him; a better friend, a better partner. He wants to know what the fuck he's supposed to do.

The lights are still on. He can hear the clock on the wall ticking again. It's too early for sleep, and too late to keep talking. If he could, he'd tell Chuck all the things that burn up inside of him. He'd tell him he's never worried about someone like that before, never experienced that intense dread he feels whenever he has to leave Chuck alone these days. Never had to save someone from themselves.

But he can't do any of that, so he just shuts his eyes and hopes that tomorrow morning he'll forget anything that happened tonight.


End file.
